


shit this is our jam

by asterisco



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisco/pseuds/asterisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John becomes a regular at a CD shop. Dave happens to work at said CD shop.</p>
<p>Oh, and they're both huge dorks.</p>
<p>Hilarity ensues?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. those shades are really stupid, oh my god.

**Author's Note:**

> I NEED TO STOP STARTING NEW FICS HEAVEN HELP ME  
> FUN FACT I STARTED THIS INTENDING TO KEEP IT A ONESHOT BUT BY THE TIME I WAS INTO LIKE THE FOURTH PARAGRAPH I WENT "WHAT THE HELL" AND IT BECAME THIS.

_You don’t think it started for him that day, but you know it started for you._  
  
Your name is John Egbert, and you can’t help but wonder if this is gonna be worth it. You just want to get your dad a nice gift for Father’s Day. You stand in front of the old CD shop. It shouldn’t be as intimidating as it feels, with a neon sign sign flashing “OPEN” like it’s late at night instead of almost lunchtime and windows plastered with sun-bleached concert promotion posters and cheesy images of the Beatles and Led Zeppelin. You’ve never been there before, you never felt the need to. Most of your music is downloaded, but you get the feeling your father would appreciate his gift more if you actually paid for it instead of burning some pirated songs onto a CD. You guess mixtapes-or, uh, in this case discs- should be reserved for girls who swoon at cheesy gestures. And your friends. After a moment’s hesitation, you step in the shop and the ringing of a small bell tied to the door announces your entrance.  
  
The shop is cleaner than you expected by the admittedly grubby exterior, but it seems to have a vintage feel to the decoration. You see some guy sporting hugeass aviators that would look stupid on anyone else but just looks mildly dorky on him working the register.  
  
At least, that’s what you presume that’s what he’s _supposed_ to be doing. He’s kind of in his own world, his expression is impersonal and indifferent, his red and black headphones blasting tinny music you can hear from where you stand. That can’t be healthy. He doesn’t notice you walking in, and you disregard him for the time being. Instead, you mentally list the artists your father likes.  
  
Only Frank Sinatra comes to mind. Going by that, you peruse the shelves that stretch across the floor, scanning the S section. The cashier’s song has changed, and it’s louder than the first. The fact it sounds vaguely like Ke$ha should interest you more than it does. You catch a generic collection album and grin, your interest shifting back to the task at hand.  
  
The album’s on sale, and costs less than six bucks. You can’t help but pump your fist in triumph, and apparently the uncoolness of that motion is enough to grab the cashier’s attention. His head turns in your direction, and the small crease that’s formed between his dark eyebrows conveys more emotion than any other feature on his face. you can’t help roll your eyes. “Your music is really loud,” you inform him, and he slides his headphones off and they hang around his neck. They look like they belong there.  
  
“What?” he asks, and suddenly his eyes widen. “Shit, wait.”  
  
He pulls out a mp3 player from his pocket and he realizes it the same time you do.  
  
His headphones weren’t even plugged in!  
  
His eyebrows raise so high it looks like they’re trying to push into his hairline and you shoot a shit-eating grin at him. He clears his throat and swings his feet off the counter, ever-so-smoothly plugging his headphones in, only to cry in pain at the volume.  
  
You watch this all feeling faintly bemused until he pauses the player and clears his throat, nodding at the CD in your hand. “You gonna buy that?” You guess you kinda forgot you were holding it until he pointed it out.  
  
“Oh! Yeah.” You guess you can’t make fun of his stupid mess up when you forgot you were about to buy a CD. “Y-yeah, buying it would be cool.”  
  
He nods and presses something on the cash register, and you can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t on or something. He stares at you expectantly and you hand his the case, which he scans, though he looks at the cover before he slips it in a tiny plastic bag. He glances up at you, and for one second it feels like his gaze just cut through the shades on his face and scanned you. You suddenly feel self-conscious for not brushing your hair this morning (not like it would really help tame the mop on your head). He opens his mouth deliberately, like he’s about to say something really smart or witty but instead he asks “That’ll be six eighty-nine. Cash or credit?”.  
  
You blink and fumble to grab your wallet. “O-oh! Cash. Yeah. Paying with cash,” you rattle out as You open your wallet. Your fingers shake when trying to file through your bills and slap a ten in in front of him. “There!” you exclaim, as if it’s a present or something. Stupid, stupid, stupid!  
  
“Thanks,” he says conversationally, and hands you the bag. You’re about to snatch it out of his hands and run out and disappear off the face of the earth forever when suddenly the corner of his mouth lifts up in a smirk and he withdraws his arm and the bag with it. Your mouth drops open, scandalized. “So, Sinatra?” he asks and you snatch it back anyways.  
  
“Well, yeah!”  
  
“It seems like he’d be the thing you’d jam to,” he says snidely, and you don’t know why it feels like that was a snarky comment on your appearance but it does! What, is he calling you old or something??  
  
“It’s for my dad!” you exclaim a bit more defensively and he nods once.  
  
“S’alright.”  
  
You glare at him, but it doesn’t look like he’s about to say anything else, so instead you head to the door and shoot a huffy “have a nice day!” over your shoulder. You think you’ve gotten the last word but just as you’ve passed the threshold and the door’s drifting closed, you hear him say something that sounds suspiciously like “be seein’ ya.”  
  
You spend that night thinking about him more than what’s acceptable. Such an encounter is one that someone would forget an hour or so later, but instead you end up going to the same CD shop the next day.  
  
Go frickin’ figure.


	2. how to hit on guys- help them do their job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fil l e r

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the most awkwardly-written chapter  
> not in the good way

He keeps coming.

That boy with the bright blue eyes and a severe case of acute bedheaditis and a huge grin that he slips up and ends up showing you all the time, even when he’s pretending that he isn’t totally charmed by you.

Oh my god, he has such a thing for you, it’s obvious.

It’s all over the starstruck look on his face when he glances at you, his insisting on talking to you at the register, his frequent calling you over to the shelf he’s browsing so he can ask for help _finding an artist on the shelf whose CD is right in front of him at fucking eye level, holy shit._

Not that you can blame him. You’re damn near irresistible.

**** (It's not like you find his grin charming or his laugh infectious, it's not like you've starting looking forward to lunch time because that's when he'll come, it's not like you don't take lunch breaks anymore, just in case.)

****

He probably won't ever make the first move, but that's fine by you. He's a shy kid, you can dig that.

****

You just appreciate a guy who takes a little initiative. That's the first test one has to pass to be considered worth your time.

****

***

****

You don't know why you're here again. It's the fifth time you've been here, and the third time for this week. You could be downloading all the shitty soundtracks you're buying, but you're not. It's ridiculous!

****

You push past the glass door but realize after sweeping your gaze across the room that he isn't here. Your stomach drops as disappointment settles in the bottom of it, only for it to be quickly replaced with irritation at yourself. Why should you care?

****

Wait- why _shouldn’t_ you?

****

You should really stop kidding yourself.

****

He intrigues you, and the sooner you accept it the sooner you can punch yourself in the face for it.

****

The room to the supply is kicked open, and you suddenly see him backing out with a staggering gait with arms filled with two boxes stopped on top each other. Compared to his rail-thin arms, they look all too much for him. He looks up at you and actually nods. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged you first, and this makes you happier than it should.

****

“Do you need help?” slips out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, and you’re already stepping forward and taking the box on top.

****

“Guess you’ve decided that for me,” he says coolly, and cocks his head towards a stack of boxes next to the register, the corner opposite from you. “It goes there. I’m restockin’.” With that, he starts towards a shelf to his right, kneeling in front of it and ripping his own box open.

****

Dumbly, you put it down where you were told to.

****

“Uh.”

****

He looks up at you. “Huh?”

****

“Are you the only person that works here?”

****

He scoffs. “No, man. You always come when everyone else is on break. It’s not like the timing of your visits are irregular or anything.”

****

You frown because he’s got a point. “Yeah, I guess they aren’t,” you grumble.

****

A tiny, satisfied smirk appeared on his face and he gave a small nod. “Thought so.”  You flush at how smug he looks and clear your throat. “You better pay me for my labor service.”

****

“You carried a box for me, man. I appreciate the favor.”

****

You cough and crouch next to him, peering over his shoulder to scan the CDs inside. They’re all a new album from some up-and-coming artist you’ve never heard of. Casually, you grab a small stack from it and start to shelf. You ignore him staring at you and maintain a straight face. The labels on the CDs indicate they belong in the alternative section. Heading there, you’re greeted with a complete mess of a shelf. Almost impulsively, you begin alphabetizing it by artist.

****

Between the two of you, the boxes are empty in less than twenty minute and the cashier is breaking the boxes down to recycle. You eyes follow the curve of back, the sweep of his neck. You realize what you’re doing, but try to ignore the voice in the back of your head screaming _“not gay, not gay, NOT GAY”_. So what if the guy has long limbs that looked right with his lean build, and that you could see something attractive in his facial structure and the way his shoulders moved when unfolding the boxes? Okay, so he’s stupidly good-looking. Does that change the fact that he’s a douche with oversized headphones and aviators or obviously bleached-blonde hair? Nah. You can acknowledge a guy’s hot, okay?

****

“Dude, if you want cash, just work here.” His voice cuts you from your internal monologue and you jump.

“Shut up, it just looked like too much work for one guy,” you grumble in reply, and he shrugs again. You hate his shoulders. You didn’t think shoulders could be attractive.

****

“Used to it,” he says calmly. “Other people work here, but there’s only three or four of us.”

****

You narrow your eyes at him. “You work long hours, then.”

****

He shakes his head. “Not that bad. One comes in mornings, another late night. I do noon after and fill in any gaps.”

****

“Oh,” you reply stupidly.

****

The two of you fall silent, and he props up the cardboard against the wall. Suddenly, something pops out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. “So, about paying me back?”

****

He turn towards you, sitting back by the register. You don’t need to see his eyes to tell he’s looking at you funny. “That wasn’t a joke? Dude, you don’t work here.”

****

You know that. You’re stupid. Why was this a good idea in your head. “Take me out for lunch. As thanks. For my friendly favor.” Your sentences are clipped and awkward, and you kinda want to disappear.

****

“S’not how favors work,” he says, and you don’t care because you’re rewarded with a glimpse of pearly teeth and a breathy exhale you realize is a soft laugh. “I know a place. Hang here ‘till I’m off and I’ll treat you.”

****

You grin despite yourself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually kno w where this is going dont shoot me

**Author's Note:**

> I'LL ACTUALLY TRY TO KEEP THIS AND THE OTHERS ACTIVE I PROMISE.


End file.
